May The Odds Ever Be In Your Favor
by Echo1317
Summary: I step forward, taking my place just a few steps away from my father. I hate the way this woman announces my name. It sounds wrong coming off her perfect, Capitol lips. "Lissa Abernathy! May the odds ever be in your favor!"


**A/N **Hello, all! This is my first Hunger Games fic, and it's been sitting on my laptop for a while, and I've finally decided that I like it enough to post it. Hopefully, you will like it too. :)

This is an AU fic that takes place a few years before the books. It's told mostly from the point of view of my OC, Lissa Abernathy, who is Haymitch's daughter. I love writing in first person present tense, so this was a lot of fun.

Disclaimer: I do not own this. Any of it. My friend even made up the OC, so I don't even get her. :P

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My father and I never got along.

Perhaps it is the fact that he barely acknowledges my existence, or that I have only seen him sober twice in my fifteen years. Or that he abandoned my mother just a few months shy of marrying her, leaving me with her when I was just a week old, and then not attending her funeral when she died just three years after that. Maybe I hate him because even though he took me in after my mother's death, I was raised by the people of the Hob more than him, or because it appears that he never sees my successes, only my failures.

Sometimes I believe that I, and the whole of District 12, would be much better off without that bumbling fool of a drunk.

My eyes, storm grey and always full of clouds, match his. It is a burden to know that, while I look like my mother in every other respect, there is physical evidence that I am his, too. I share with him blood and perhaps a few passing words every other day as he stumbles in and out of consciousness at our kitchen table. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Today is Reaping Day, and everyone is gathered in the square. My father is in the same spot he always is, but I can't bother trying to find him. He couldn't matter that much to me, or that is at least what I tell myself. All I ever want is to have him acknowledge me, though I'd never let him know that that is my goal. He always looks right through me. Still, just this once I allow myself to look up, right at him, as if to say, 'See? I am standing on my own. Look at me!' I have the striking suspicion that he doesn't care.

That is why I am so surprised at the look of dread on his face as a young woman in a blue wig calls my name. All eyes have turned to me, but I can only see my fathers, a reflection of my own. He drops the bottle in his hands and I see his lips forming a word, one of desperation and horror. It's the one word that every parent thinks to say when their child has been chosen as a tribute for the Hunger Games. My father, more than anyone, I think, has reason to say it now. _No._

I don't move from the spot I am standing in, even though people have cleared the way for me and are staring expectantly. They are waiting for me to do something, but I can't tear myself away just yet. My father is trying to communicate something to me, telling me to run, to get away while I can. I will not listen to these pleas from the man who has spent my whole life ignoring me. He wants to protect me now, it's too little and much too late. My eyes narrow, and his become resigned. I've made my choice. I step forward, taking my place next to the blue haired woman, next to the other doomed tribute and just a few steps away from my father. I hate the way the woman announces my name. It sounds wrong coming off of her perfect, Capitol lips.

"_Lissa Abernathy! May the odds ever be in your favor!"_

************

As I am about to enter the arena, I think of the past few days at the Capitol, realizing that they are mostly a complete blur to me. I was dressed as a piece of coal at one point, I believe, and paraded in front of the citizens of Panem like an animal at a fair. I performed for the judges, tossing a few knives skillfully in the air and around the room. I think I scored perhaps an eight from them. Someone interviewed me, and I'm almost certain I said all the wrong things. None of it is clear to me now.

However, one moment that took place just a few hours ago stands out in my mind. It was a moment I hope never to forget- or perhaps it would be better if I did.

_I'd just woken up this morning when there was a knock on my door. I had thought it to be the woman who had initially chosen me for this affair, and I wanted nothing to do with her. I threw my shoe at the door, and an indignant huff came from the other side. I froze as I was about to slip on my robe over my night cloths. I knew that huff. _

_The door swung open and my father stepped into the room, for once clean shaven and wearing a nice suit. There wasn't a bottle of alcohol in his hand, which was something that I had never witnessed before. I stood from my seat on the bed, staring him down and just daring him to be the one to break the fifteen year old silence between us. He didn't appear willing to. I was just about to turn my back on him, when he did something I don't think either of us expected. _

_In a few great strides, my father crossed the room, taking me into his arms and embracing me for the first time I could remember. I stood stiff and cold, almost suspicious of his motives. Why now? After all this time? _

"_I'm sorry," My father whispered in my ear, his voice quivering in an unfamiliar way, "I'm sorry, Lissa."_

_I sank into his arms, wrapping my own arms around him and hiding my face in his chest. I felt as if I was a small child, because to be honest I was quite a bit smaller than him. A few stray tears leaked out of my eyes. _

"_I'll make you proud, Daddy," I whispered to him. And then I walked away. _

Perhaps I should have stayed longer, to find out if his true purpose was just to apologize to me- an apology long overdue, but nonetheless accepted for the most part. There is something, though, to the way he said it. A despair that has nothing to do with his absence from my life. As the hover craft drops me down and I open my eyes, wet with fresh tears, to my new surroundings, I know why he found me, and said what he said.

It is because he does not expect me to live.

**********

The Capitol is abuzz with gossip. The 70th annual Hunger Games has an unexpected twist, putting former winner Haymitch Abernathy's daughter in the arena along with her fellow tributes. Haymitch refuses to comment to anyone about Lissa's involvement. To everyone, it appears as if the old man doesn't care.

But he still sits in front of that damned television, every day since the Games began. At every sound of the cannon, his heart stops for just a moment, and he prays that it's not for her. Anyone else, please, as long as it's not his girl.

He knows he has no right to claim her, because even after living under the same roof for a decade and a half, he doesn't know her very well. Perhaps at all. He regrets it, of course he does. But what he regrets even more is not having been able to save her from suffering the same fate that he did twenty years ago.

This night is as cold and bleak as any other. Haymitch's eyes, the ones that he gave Lissa, are glued to the screen in front of him. There she is, his daughter, doing hand to hand combat with a boy twice her size. Haymitch's heart is racing. Let it be her who wins. Let it be her who wins.

Lissa's dagger comes down over the boy's neck, slashing an artery. He drops to the ground, and so does she. Thinking that she has finished him off, Lissa closes her eyes, giving herself just one second of peace before having to move again. Her heartbeat slowly regulates, and so does Haymitch's. He breathes a sigh of relief from his seat on the plush couch in his room. One more down. She really might be able to win this thing.

What neither notice is that there has been no cannon fired. The boy is still alive, if only just. Haymitch cries out as if to warn Lissa, as if she can hear him, as the boy with the neck wound looms over her and thrusts the dagger already stained with his blood into her chest.

Haymitch is silent. The world seems to be crashing down around him. There is a knock on the door and someone's voice, but he can't hear it over the roaring in his ears.

Two cannons are fired in quick succession. This year's female tribute from District 12 is dead.

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Why do I always write these horrible, tragic things happening to my favorite characters? I don't know. But it sure is fun. ;) Please review, if you get the chance.

-Echo1317


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